


Raised in a Barn

by Wilde_Shade



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, Families of Choice, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Torture, eventual daddy kink. setting up for it., very disfunctional families of choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilde_Shade/pseuds/Wilde_Shade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat has a short memory for repercussions. There's no teaching him common sense. Roadhog probably underestimated what a full time job this whole bodyguard gig was going to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to just be porn, but then too much non-porn happened while I was trying to get a feel for Junkrat's narrative voice. I predict only 3 chapters or so, but we'll see how it goes.

 

Junkrat had never met his father.

 

Well, maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe he had. There were a lot of big broad gaps in his memory. He had a tendency to forget names, places, faces and, weirdly, sometimes the names of fruits. So, maybe, his dad was one of the countless men on the periphery of his memories. The point was, when Roadhog asked him why he didn’t know how to (responsibly) start a fire, ("Didn’t your father teach you that?") Junkrat could only shrug. It had been an off the cuff kind of question. Hog meant it rhetorically.

 

Still, it got Junkrat thinking. It didn’t take much to get him thinking. His mind liked to go. It liked to wander. His memory of childhood was patchy. His memory of a year ago was patchy. His memory of Tuesday was… (Was it Tuesday today?) If his teenage years were a blur, the ones before that were a blank.

 

Roadhog took away the gas canister. He made a pile of sticks and paper towel rolls from the gutted corner shop nearby. He made the new pile next to Junrkat’s. (Car tires, bags of trash, more gas cans.) When Junkrat flicked the lighter, Roadhog’s hand was there, making sure the flame touched the pile he’d deemed “safe.”

 

“Yer boring, mate,” Junkrat had told him. Roadhog hadn’t seemed to care, even though boring was just about the worst thing a person could be.

 

 

Some nights there was no fire. They didn’t have kindling or they couldn’t afford drawing attention to themselves. Some nights, it was cold. Roadhog did fine in the cold. (”Because I’m big.”) Junkrat just shivered. (”Because you’re not.”)

 

Junkrat maintained that he carried useful things on their travels: colored markers, tea, an Uno deck. Roadhog argued otherwise. Roadhog brought things that were bulkier, more of a hassle. They only came in handy sometimes. And thank God he didn’t rub it in when they did. He’d just come up behind Junkrat while he shivered, and unceremoniously drop a blanket so he wouldn’t freeze to death.

 

That was how they first hooked up, actually. (Fond memories. Fond, fond memories.) It was the coldest night in a week of cold nights. Junkrat had spent the first four nights huddled beneath a blanket that seemed worthless. The cold crept under its corners and every time the wind picked up, it bit through the fabric like a sharp-toothed dog.

 

On the fifth night, his skin hurt. Despite the cold, he was sweating. It stung his throat when he inhaled and made his chest feel like there was a cinder block sitting on it. Not even pulling the the blanket over his head helped. He could only curl up on the cold ground, sweating, and think warm thoughts. (Daytime, engine blocks, explosions.)

 

Roadhog pulled the blanket back. He ignored Junkrat’s complaining long enough to lay one large hand against his brow. “Hmm,” he grunted, withdrawing his hand and rubbing the sweat off on his dungarees. “Let go.” He took the blanket away completely, and Junkrat didn’t even complain this time. It was too damn cold. It was Roadhog’s blanket to begin with and it wasn’t helping anyway, so why bother?

 

But Junkrat felt something large at his back. Someone. He felt the blanket come back down and the corner of a second blanket. (Hog’s blanket?) He felt a hand chafe his his arm, his shoulder. He felt a whole new source of heat and knew it was Roadhog. “Now it’s too hot,” he complained.

 

“No it’s not,” said Roadhog.

 

Junkrat supposed he was right. The sensation of being _too_ warm came and went and came and went. Either way, it was better than freezing. Not that he would tell Roadhog that. He probably expected something, though.

 

The business partnership they had was tenuous. (Wasn’t it?) How could any transaction where you couldn’t pay someone up front not be? Junkrat wanted to keep Roadhog happy. And if there was anything he had learned about keeping people happy, it was that everyone loved to get off. Besides, people usually cozied up to you in the middle of the night for a reason.

 

“What are you doing?” Roadhog demanded, his hand tight around Junkrat’s right wrist.

 

“Uhh… Hand-job?” ventured Junkrat, uncertain if Roadhog wanted something else (Blow job? What a hassle.) or no sexual favors whatsoever. (Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was boring.)

 

“No,” said Roadhog. (Boring.)

 

So, maybe that wasn’t how they first hooked up. Maybe that was the prologue to it. Chapter one came later, and chapter one had a whole _lot_ of lackluster hand-jobs preformed half-asleep, sharing a blanket in the dead of night. Either Junkrat’s dashing good looks had won ol’ Pig Face over or repeated, near-nightly passes had eventually just worn the big guy down. Junkrat wasn’t sure which, but he was willing to take pride in either.

 

Things were a little easier once they were fooling around. It was less weird now when Roadhog touched him. It was less weird when he laid the back of his hand against his cheek. (Even the back of his hand felt hard and calloused. _Delightful._ ) It was less weird when he used his thumb to wipe away blood. Because Junkrat bled sometimes, and sometimes it was his fault, though not always. Junkrat hadn’t met a Junker that didn’t have something wrong with them. The radiation touched everyone in different ways. The trick was convincing everyone else it’d used a lighter touch on you.

 

There was no hiding everything from Roadhog. There was the stuff he found out over time. There was the obvious stuff as well. He helped with that, too. “You’re reckless,” Hog would say, sitting with a busted leg across his lap. He was so much faster with repairs than Junkrat. (Maybe Junkrat pretended to be a little worse at it than he actually was. Maybe.)

 

 

“How are you not dead already?” Roadhog asked more than once.

 

Junkrat wasn’t sure how to answer, because he could survive. He always had. He had been good at it before he couldn’t be invisible when he wanted anymore, before people were looking for him. An extra gun was all he really needed Roadhog for. The rest… the rest, Roadhog just did on his own. The rest, Junkrat let him do.

 

Not that Roadhog was always all boring and responsible. They had fun. _Today_ they were going to have fun.

 

“And then we blow it up,” said Junkrat passing his binoculars to Roadhog.

 

Roadhog didn’t use the binoculars. He just pocketed them, even though he was the one who had insisted they make a plan. “That’s unnecessary,” he grumbled.

 

Junkrat gave his bodyguard a light kick in the shins. “Don’t act like you don’t want to see that place go sky high. All that fuel they got down there.” Junkrat couldn’t find the words. He mimed an explosion with his arms. “ _Huge_ , mate. I know you want to see that.”

 

Roadhog gave a noncommittal grunt. He stared at the truck stop on the horizon, probably weighing the risks. (Not fun.) “Yeah… Yeah, I do.” (Fun.)

 

“That’s the spirit!” Junkrat aimed a playful punch at Roadhog’s arm, but got shut down when Roadhog intercepted it with his palm.

 

“Hit me again, and you won’t like what happens next,” he warned. Apparently, that kick earlier had filled some sort of daily quota.

 

“Okay, okay. Chill out, big guy. Sheesh.” Junkrat ducked down and checked the bag of explosives he’d brought along from camp. “So, here’s the plan,” he began. He _was_ the boss after all. “You create a distraction, I set the explosives, I help you kill some folks, we retreat, then _boom!_ ” Junkrat laughed. He couldn’t help it. That sounded fantastic. He couldn’t wait.

 

“You forgot the score,” Roadhog pointed out.

 

“What?” Junkrat looked up from the explosives. “Oh… _Oooh_. Roight. Good call. Plan amended: at some point, I steal something. Good plan. We ready to go?”

 

“No,” said Roadhog.

 

“ _No_?” repeated Junkrat.

 

“No,” said Roadhog.

 

“What?” Junkrat gave his bodyguard a look he hoped communicated how annoyed he was. “And I suppose _you_ have a better plan.”

 

Roadhog snorted. “You don’t have a plan, idiot. You have a list.”

 

“I don’t pay you for sass.”

 

“You don’t pay me.”

 

“And I never will with that attitude!” Junkrat gathered his explosives and began the treacherous slide down the sand dune they were surveying their target from. Without turning, he heard Roadhog follow.

 

They didn’t need the fuel. You could always use a fill up out here, sure. It was a long way between settlements and the like. They had money to pay for it, things to trade for it. They’d done just that yesterday. No, this wasn’t about need. This was personal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something absolutely unforgivable happens.

 

**One Day Earlier**

 

 

“Stay here,” said Roadhog, pointing to the wreckage of a helicopter half-consumed by sand.

 

“Okay,” said Junkrat.

 

“I mean it.”

 

“Okay,” Junkrat repeated, scanning the horizon.

 

“Look at me.” Roadhog reached out and angled Junkrat’s face in the direction of his own. “Don’t wander off. I mean it.”

 

“I said okay!” Junkrat slapped his bodyguard’s hand away. “I’m waiting here. I heard ya the first time!”

 

There was an old fueling station up ahead. A truck stop or something. It looked to be manned. Junkers probably ran some kind of operation out of it. Roadhog would go on ahead and check it out. It was part of being a bodyguard, he said. He’d make sure no one there was actively hunting Junkrat. If there were posters up and talk of bounties, he’d fuel up, come back for Junkrat, and they’d move on. If they weren’t well-connected out here and didn’t deal with bounties, maybe they’d stick around and use the garage to make repairs on the bike.

 

Usually, they decided not to risk it and moved on. Roadhog would come back for Junkrat, and he would be right where he left him.

 

Okay, almost always where he left him. Maybe, sometimes, several feet away. Maybe _always_ several feet away. And maybe “several” was a unit of measurement open for interpretation. That was no reason for Roadhog not to trust him this time.

 

Roadhog stayed right where he was. He was looking down at Junkrat like he was mulling something over in that dense pig head of his. “What?” asked Junkrat, growing impatient. Roadhog replied by moving faster than a man his size should have been able to. Or maybe Junkrat just got distracted. There was a weird looking bird on the horizon. (Maybe a lizard. Doubly worth looking at if it could jump that high.) He looked at it for a _second_ and when he looked back, his flesh and blood wrist was handcuffed to the door of the helicopter.

 

“Hog!” Junkrat threw out his metal arm and grabbed for his traitorous bodyguard. Roadhog took a step back, just out of his reach. That didn’t keep Junkrat from continuing to claw at him. “What the hell? Uncuff me! That’s an order from your boss! Uncuff me!”

 

“No.” Roadhog threw a leg over his bike and climbed on. “I’ll be back.”

 

“I’m a sitting duck out here! What if someone comes along, huh?”

 

“Hide,” said Roadhog.

 

“And how am I supposed to do that with me wrist handcuffed to a _helicopter_?”

 

“Be creative.” Roadhog sounded unconcerned, he revved his bike.

 

“And what if you don’t come back?!” Junkrat demanded, shouting over the roar of the engine. (Okay. He didn’t like that one. Not pushing that one. Roadhog was coming back.) “I’m thirsty!”

 

Roadhog pointed to… Junkrat’s dick? (What the fuck, mate?) Junkrat looked down. His flask. Right. He felt a momentary swell of excitement as he remembered he’d made tea this morning. The swell fell flat as he remembered it was probably about the temperature of piss by now; not warm enough to be soothing, not cold enough to be refreshing. As soon as he was done realizing this, he realized Roadhog was driving away.

 

Junkrat threw out every foul name he could think of on the spot. (Two. He thought of two.) He screamed after Roadhog until his throat hurt. It didn’t make any difference. Roadhog was too far away and, if he had heard him, he didn’t care. That fat piece of shit. Junkrat swore and gave the door a kick. His peg leg sank in the sand, and he lost his footing. He swore again as he landed hard on his ass, his arm jerking painfully against the metal. The helicopter door popped open, hitting him in the shins for his trouble. “Fuck!”

 

At least only one hand was cuffed. If he really need to, he could blow these things right off. That seemed risky, though. (Not because of the explosion. Because these were the sex cuffs. What kind of monster would he be if he ruined the sex cuffs?) Junkrat ventured into the helicopter instead. It was full of sand and bones picked clean by nature. Probably a suit’s helicopter, Junkrat decided. The inside of the thing looked like it used to be all expensive and plush. Besides, it had doors. What self-respecting person put doors on a helicopter? How were you supposed to rain destruction down on the masses with doors in the way?

 

There was a briefcase shoved under a chair. That solved that riddle. Definitely a suit. Junkrat strained against his cuffs and managed to snag the briefcase. He yanked it toward himself and popped it open. Inside, there was plenty of boring nonsense. (Papers and the like.) There was also a stuffed Pachimari, a bit squashed by virtue of spending the last however many years in a briefcase. The big guy would like that. Junkrat put it aside, a colorful envelope below the doll catching his eye.

 

It was a birthday card. Emily was turning eight. Tough luck little Emily, daughter of dead Suit, haver of an, undoubtedly, shitty birthday. Junkrat tossed the card aside and dusted the Pachimari off a bit. He wasn’t sure when his own birthday was. He wasn’t even sure how old he was. (Most of the bounty posters described him from anywhere between twenty and fifty-two. He didn’t _think_ he was fifty-two.) Junkrat celebrated birthdays when they felt right; when you felt _about_ another year older or when you really wanted to do something special. (”Let’s have us some Hogdrogen and fuck, Roadie. It’s mah birthday.”)

 

Maybe he’d had a proper birthday somewhere down the line. Maybe before The Boom, he’d had birthdays. (Had there been a him before the Outback fried? Probably. _Technically_.) Maybe there had been a mom and a dad and some kind of gift in a closet somewhere, set aside for the big day. That didn’t feel right, though. The thought of a birthday card like the one for Emily left a bad taste in his mouth. Those early memories were so fuzzy as to be nonexistent. His brain wouldn’t let him hang on to them. There was a memory of a Junker up there. (Bad teeth, tall, pointy face.) Probably not his dad unless he’d been a very busy fellow. He kept at least a dozen kids. Junkers liked kids. (Especially in those early days when there was fresh, untouched salvage for miles. Just about everything had been picked over twice since then. Shame) They liked to teach them how to disarm things. Their hands were small, and they were light enough that they didn’t set off defenses… Well, they didn’t set off traps about half the time, anyway. Idly, Junkrat brushed some of the sand out from from his leg joint.

 

God, he was bored.

 

It took _ages_ for Roadhog to come back. _Ages._ (He was fifty-two by now, surely.) “Not opening this door, mate. I live in the helicopter now. I’ve settled down, found a wife, started a lovely family.”

 

“Should be fine,” said Roadhog, ignoring him and explaining the situation at the truck stop. “We can use the garage. Storm’s coming. Hurry up.”

 

“I feel like we should lay down some ground rules… again,” Junkrat continued, raising his voice so that he could be heard through the closed door. “Ya can’t keep disobeying direct orders and handcuffin’ me to shit like this. I’m the boss and I demand respect, hear me?”

 

“Yes,” said Roadhog.

 

“So, you’ll be a little more respectful?”

 

“No, but I heard you.”

 

“Touche.” Junkrat opened the door. He watched as Roadhog leaned down, that small key held in those big hands of his. “You know, yer such a pain in my ass I almost don’t want to give you- Ah, what the hell.” Junkrat took the Pachimari from where he’d stashed it behind his back. He took quite a bit of pleasure in the way the big guy paused. Roadhog liked what he liked, and what he liked was cute shit. It was sorta endearing. “Wait, no. Come back. Uncuff me first!” Junkrat slumped back against the door of the helicopter as Roadhog took the Pachimari back to his bike. He lovingly stashed the thing in a saddlebag before coming back for his boss.

 

Roadhog unlocked Junkrat’s cuffs with one hand. The other hand came down, gently, on his head. “Thanks,” he said.

 

Junkrat bit back a smile. He grabbed on to the hand and let Roadhog pull him up to standing. “Not like you deserve it or anything.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A storm did roll in. The wind picked up, whipping around all sorts of nasty debris. The garage was a nice place to be. They had it to themselves, though Roadhog wouldn’t let Junkrat set traps. (”There are lots of lowlifes out there.” “Don’t.” “If they come snooping in here in the middle of the night, it’s for no good.” “Don’t.”) The truck stop had proper lodgings and more than one garage. There were, maybe, thirty people staying there right now. They were, technically, guests though. Maybe traps weren’t worth it if it meant potentially starting trouble. Maybe.

 

They worked on the bike into the night. There were plenty of goodies to be salvaged in the garage. Junkrat would have preferred to spend time with those, but Roadhog insisted he help. (”Oh, you don’t want me to help. I don’t know what I’m doing.” “Yes, you do.” “I’ll break it.” “Then you’ll fix it. Get over here.”) Junkrat didn’t remember giving Roadhog the impression that he knew how to make repairs on motorcycles. Oh well. Feigning ignorance had been worth a try.

 

It got cold again when night came. Junkrat could have slept in the sidecar, but Roadhog looked awfully comfortable on a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner - and he didn’t tell him to fuck off when he got over there to see if he could join him. Roadhog was warm and comfortable and, sometimes, when he thought Junkrat was asleep, he put an arm around him. Junkrat wasn’t sure why he did that last thing. He liked it, though. He liked Roadhog. Hell, he loved the big guy. He loved him like he loved explosives. The difference being that you could always get more of the latter. There was only one Roadhog. Sometimes, he wanted to smash his head in, but mostly he just loved him. If he had to guess how Roadhog felt about him, well, he liked to think it was those same two emotions. Maybe an even fifty-fifty split. Those were better odds that he got with most people.

 

“Stop hogging the good blanket, ya heifer. You know, I haven’t forgotten you handcuffin’ me back there. That was low. You owe me, ya know? You owe me big.” Junkrat moved in closer. He nestled his head against Roadie’s shoulder. “You wanna fool around?”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah, okay. Fair enough.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He had a dream he was a kid back in those early years of Junkertown. He lived in the walls of a bar, because it was always loud and always crowded and no one noticed a lame rat at their feet. He’d been on his own since it happened. (Light. No boom. No bang. He’d been told there had been both those things and blood, but he’d only seen light.) The Junker felt bad about it, he heard. (Because there wasn’t a whole lot to do besides sit and eavesdrop after that.) He kept him alive. He tried to find some other use for him, but he wasn’t good for much. (or anything anymore) The kid had a shorter fuse now, the Junker said. He was meaner, picked fights he couldn’t win with the other kids. Couldn’t have that. Could _not_ afford that.

 

And kids were mean, and kids held grudges. They didn’t want the same thing to happen to them. They didn’t want to be kicked out, too. They followed the rat to the bar. And  they raided its nest in the wall for food and money and scrap they could bring back to the Junker. And that was what Junkrat dreamed about. Except this time, he didn’t get angry. He didn’t get fed up and furious. He didn’t set traps that got increasingly dangerous.

 

No one got hurt. Certainly, no one died. No one messed with him in the first place, because Junkrat had a bodyguard.

 

 

 

Junkrat jumped. It was still dark in the garage. One large hand was on his shoulder. “Nightmare,” said Roadhog in way of explanation for waking him up.

 

“Nah,” said Junkrat, sitting up to try and clear some of that nasty fog from his head. “It wasn’t a nightmare.” He couldn’t sleep. He kept on sitting there, waiting to forget it like he forgot most dreams. After a while, he felt Roadhog’s hand on his back. Not doing anything, just resting there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Junkrat didn’t remember falling back asleep. All the same, he woke up the next morning alone on the cardboard boxes, beneath their blankets. Today was the day. Today was the day the unforgivable thing happened.

 

The truck stop was supposed to be a neutral space. That didn’t mean it was safe for Junkrat to spend too much time out where everyone could get a good look at him. Junkers were an opportunistic bunch. (Junkrat knew this. So was he.) There was some commotion going on right outside the garage now over something or another someone had tried to steal. Sweeping a blanket around his shoulders, he headed for the garage door.

 

“He fucked up Steve!” a Junker shouted. “No way he’s gonna be the same after this!

 

There was a group of five or six Junkers gathered a few feet away from Roadhog. An broad-shouldered old man stood between them like a mediator. Junkrat figured he must run the place. “Did you fuck up Steve?” asked the old man.

 

“Caught him stealing.” Roadhog shrugged. So, yes. He fucked up Steve.

 

“Was he messing with the bike?” asked Junkrat, coming up behind his bodyguard. “I told you someone would mess with the bike! …How the hell did I not wake up for that?” (Worrying news all around.)

 

Roadhog turned, threw out a hand, and forced Junkrat off to one side of the garage door, out of sight. “Stay out of this,” he grumbled.

 

“Give us the bike. We’ll call it even,” threw out a particularly ambitious Junker. Junkrat took a step forward to tell him where he could shove that idea, but Roadhog reached out without looking and pinned him. A hand on Junkrat’s chest kept him against the wall and out of sight.

 

The old man frowned. “I don’t think you’re getting the bike, son. Let’s see if we can’t find a more reasonable way to settle this.”

 

“They tried to steal from us!” Junkrat knew why Roadhog was trying to keep him out of this. It had to be said, though. Just had to. The words were swarming in his head. “If anything, we should-” The rest came out as a wheeze as a little more pressure from Roadhog squeezed the remaining air from his lungs.

 

“He got one of ours,” said another Junker. “We should get a shot at his loud-mouthed buddy there.”

 

The old man raised his eyebrows. He looked back at Roadhog. He sized up Junkrat. “Sounds fair to me.”

 

“We’re leaving,” said Roadhog, not bothering to entertain the suggestion.

 

“Like hell!” shouted a Junker.

 

“We’re gonna get some kinda restitution here,” said another.

 

Roadhog headed for the bike, shoving Junkrat along in front of him. “You can try.” (No one did.)

 

“Hoggie,” Junkrat hissed as they walked. “Real talk. Some asshole tried to steal what’s ours? Why did I not wake up?

 

“You did,” Roadhog grumbled, sounding annoyed. (Junkrat was 85% sure it was not his fault Roadhog was annoyed. Not this time.)

 

“I did?”

 

“You did. You punched him,” Roadhog took the bike off its kickstand and began to roll it from the garage like it wasn’t half as big and heavy as it looked.

 

“Did I?” Junkrat thought back. He had a vague recollection of waking up a second time during the night.

 

“I told you to go back to sleep… You spit on him, then you went back to sleep.”

 

“That sounds right.” Junkrat trailed close behind Roadhog, ready to hop in the sidecar as soon as they were clear of the crowd.

 

“You’re not welcome back here,” said the old man. He probably had some kind of standing deal going with the Junkers. Maybe this was a kind of con they ran. Maybe they were having second thoughts about seeing that con through on a fella that looked like Roadhog.

 

Roadhog didn’t say anything. He didn’t seemed particularly bothered by any of this. Junkrat supposed he felt the same. They’d done all they needed to do here. They were leaving with what they owned. Repairs had been made, supplies were replenished. He hopped into the sidecar as the engine revved.

 

“Yeah,” scoffed someone. Junkrat didn’t see who. “Don’t come back, ya fat sack of shit.”

 

The hook came out before Junkrat even stood, anchoring him to the bike. He didn’t want to be dragged, so he had no choice but to stand there while they got further and further away. “Who said that! Which one of you cunts said that?!” But either no one heard him or they didn’t care to answer. Fine. That was _fine_. He’d just have to come back and kill all of them.

 

“Sit _down!”_ Roadhog’s voice boomed over the engine. Junkrat sat instinctively. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it anymore.

 

The truck stop was out of sight before Junkrat decided what he was going to do. “Pull over,” he said. When Roadhog didn’t, he stood and swatted him on the arm. “Hey, I said pull over!”

 

Roadhog stopped, throwing out an arm to stop Junkrat from reeling forward when he cut the engine.

 

“I wanna go back and steal their shit.” Junkrat held on to Roadhog’s forearm as he hopped out into the sand. “Maybe kill some of them- a bunch of them- most- all of them.”

 

Roadhog glanced back in the direction of the truck stop. “Okay.” He shrugged. “Sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat arms some explosives, and Roadhog quits. Not in that order.

 

**Now**

 

Anyway, yeah. That’s why they were doing this. They needed the fuel. (No, wait. That wasn’t right. Ah, well.) Junkrat set the first charge. He could hear gunfire on the other side of the building. Roadhog was busy. (God, he wanted to watch him work.) Junkrat’s hands flew. The sooner he finished here, the sooner he could join in on the fun. Not that setting up explosives wasn’t fun. Standing back to back with Roadhog in a fire fight was just… more fun.

 

What would he do without the big lug? Go back to the way things had been before, probably. What had things been like before? He had to think back. He liked the time he’d spent with Roadhog. His memory favored it. (That shitty stuff before having a bodyguard? Pfft. Toss those times. Who needed em’?) There had been the time he’d spent with other Junkers. There had been a time when he was sought after for his particular set of skills. (Once, “He’s the best you’ll find with explosives, but he’s a little unhinged.” Later, “He’s eccentric.” Finally, “He’s a complete fucking lunatic.”) That had been all right. Junkertown had never been lonely, at least.

 

It was after he’d found his treasure that everything went to shit. After a lifetime in that beautiful cesspit, he thought he’d made at least a few friends. He’d been wrong.

 

But then there was Roadie. Wonderful, Roadie. He was better than a friend. He was practically family. And family didn’t try to murder you or abandon you… Except all those times Roadhog had tried to do both.

 

A wire sparked. Junkrat shook his head and tried to focus. Wouldn’t do anyone any good if he got careless. If the whole thing went up with him right there, Roadie would be without backup. He’d be in serious trouble and, of course, just beside himself over the fact that his boss was dead. Junkrat liked to think he would be upset, anyway. A niggling voice in the back of his head told him it wouldn’t matter. It told him that this was the Junkers who'd tried to collect on his bounty all over again. As soon as a better offer came along, he’d be working that information out of Junkrat as hard as anyone ever had. It was the same voice that checked him when he dreamed too big. (You should not steal that jet and rig it with explosives. You cannot fly a jet.) It was the same voice that told him to focus now and the same voice that whispered to him on nights when everything felt heavy. So, it talked a lot of sense.

 

“Stop,” Junkrat grumbled to himself. He set out another explosive.

 

* * *

 

 

**??? Weeks Ago**

 

It was dark out. Junkrat couldn’t sleep. There was a black marker in his left hand and a flashlight between his legs. He wasn’t much of an artist, especially not with his left hand. (Still getting used to that.) Smiley faces were easy enough when the rest of him was playing nice. He sighed when a tremor in his hand made an errant line. It turned the smile into a lopsided frown. Everything got less cooperative when he was tried.

 

“Go to sleep,” said Roadhog’s voice from the darkness.

 

Junkrat turned the flashlight in his direction. Roadhog held up a hand to keep it from blinding him. He was stretched out on top of a sleeping bag. The weather was warm and still tonight. It was quiet. It had been quiet all day. Roadhog had been giving him the silent treatment off and on in the days since they’d stated fooling around. “That something bodyguards have a say in?” Junkrat was getting tired of Roadhog insisting things stay all businesslike one minute, ordering his boss around the next. “You my dad now, too? I got a bedtime?”

 

Roadhog grunted and turned away from Junkrat, rolling onto his side. He was done with the conversation - what little of one there had been. Junkrat wasn’t. “Wait. I think I like that.” He was finished being annoyed for now. He had ideas. Junkrat set his ammo aside and moved to his bodyguard. “What do you say we fool around, Daddy?” He leaned against his shoulder and ran a hand down the big guy’s chest. “I mean, if that’s what you wanna be. I’ll try anything once, mate.”

 

“Stop.” Roadhog rolled his shoulder back, trying to shrug Junkrat off.

 

Junkrat scrambled over him, dodging a blindly aimed fist as he dropped down to the edge of the sleeping bag. He grinned at Roadhog, face to face with him now. “That a maybe or a soft no?”

 

“Go away.”

 

“Don’t be like that, Daddy. You should-” Junkrat could not say the hand around his throat came as a surprise. He stopped talking when his air was cut off. Roadhog eased up when he began to cough. His hand stayed there, though. Like a threat.

 

“Go away,” he said again.

 

Junkrat could have, but he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to go off and sit alone less. At any rate, he decided not to do any more teasing. He didn’t feel like picking a fight. “So…” he began, reaching for a topic. Any topic. “You and your old man close?”

 

“No.”

 

“He still alive?”

 

“No.”

 

“What was he like?”

 

“No.”

 

Junkrat pried at the fingers round his neck as he considered where to go from here. “Hey, you ever have a family?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Wife? Husband? Maybe a little piglet or two?” The fingers around his throat twitched then tightened. Junkrat knew he had made a mistake when Roadhog began to rise to his feet. “Woah… woah!” He choked out, grabbing Roadhog’s forearm to try and support some of his own weight. Being hoisted up by the neck was uniquely uncomfortable. It didn’t last long. A sharp kick to the shins prompted his bodyguard to fling him to the ground. “The hell, mate?” He rubbed at his throat as he glared up at him.

 

“What’s wrong with you?”

 

“What?”

 

“What-” He took a step closer to Junkrat, looming over him. (He was a big guy. Very, very good at looming.) “-is wrong with you?” He gave each word weight. They made Junkrat’s chest feel heavy, like he’d done something wrong.

 

“What’s wrong with _you_?” he shot back. He clenched his fists, ready to throw a punch. Looked like he’d picked a fight after all. (Oh well.)

 

But Roadhog just kept looking down at him. He was hard to read through the mask. His body language was stiff and vague. Finally, he shook his head. He squatted down and began to roll up the sleeping bag. Junkrat watched him do it. He watched him stand when he was finished and head for the bike.

 

 

“Where are you going?” When Roadhog didn’t answer him, Junkrat stood, trailing a few steps behind him. “Hey! Where are you going?”

 

“I’m done,” said Roadhog. “You’re on your own.”

 

The words made sense individually, but they were hard to wrap his head around as a coherent whole. Junkrat had to replay them a few times before he realized what was going on. Roadhog was quitting. “Okay, you win.” Junkrat tried a smile, but Roadhog wasn’t even looking. “You go back to sleep. I’ll shut up.”

 

Roadhog climbed onto the bike. The engine revved.

 

“I didn’t even do anything!” Junkrat tried to put himself in front of the bike but couldn’t move fast enough. “I’m sorry!” He made a grab at his own sidecar as it passed, but it had already picked up too much momentum for him to do anything besides watch. “I said I was sorry!” The bike wasn’t turning around. He was really leaving. This had never happened before. “Fuck you!” He grabbed a broken piece of rebar off the ground and chucked it after him as hard as he could. It fell very, very short. “I’m _not_ sorry! I didn’t do shit! Fuck you!”

 

If Roadhog had asked (And he never did.) Junkrat would never admit he cried that night. He couldn’t sleep. He sat up and listened for the sound of an engine. When the sun came up, he packed everything that had been left behind. (Even the blanket. Especially, the blanket. You’d be an idiot not to pack a blanket.) Briefly, he considered trying to find a new bodyguard. He didn’t like it. Didn’t trust it. Stupid to trust Roadhog. At least he didn’t go for the bounty, he told himself. (That didn’t make him feel any better.) He also told himself he’d been alone before. It made no difference, being alone again. (That didn’t make him feel any better, but it didn’t make him feel any worse either. It was what it was.)

 

Junkrat walked. There wasn’t anything else to do. He followed the trail left behind by the bike. Just in case Roadhog changed his mind. (No.)

 

He followed the trail left behind by the bike because it was practical. Roadhog was headed for the nearest piece of civilization. Junkrat couldn’t wander out here forever. He’d need food or water eventually. He’d need a plan.

 

Junkrat was making good progress. The sun was at his back. His peg leg was rubbing him wrong and his back ached partly because of it. It wasn’t anything unbearable. He had an idea of where he was headed and how far it was. At this rate, he’d make it there by tomorrow easy. That would leave him with food and water to spare.

 

Junkrat paused when he saw his sidecar overturned on the cracked clay soil. He stopped when he got to it. There were bolts and connecting scraps of metal on the ground, like it had been detached in a hurry. Junkrat set the sidecar upright. He put his stuff down, flopped backwards into it, and lay there for a very long time. It started to get dark. He would have gotten up, but he felt too heavy to move. Easier just to stay there and look at the sky and not think about anything at all. Normally, he wasn’t much of a fan. Normally, he _had_ to move. Normally, his thoughts were loud. Not tonight. The air was thick and still and, if he didn’t move, it was almost like he wasn’t there at all.

 

The stars were out when he heard the familiar roar of a bike. Junkrat didn’t move. If he moved, his mind might start moving too. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to think.

 

The engine cut off. Junkrat heard heavy footsteps and the rhythmic jingle of a chain. Soon, Roadhog was standing over him, looking down at him. He stood there for a bit before pushing up his mask. The expression he was wearing was just as hard to read without it. He didn’t look angry anymore. (Well, maybe a little angry.) He didn’t look sorry either. (Maybe a little sorry, but he was conflicted about it.) He was frowning, eyebrows drawn together. Finally, he reached down and touched the back of his hand to Junkrat’s cheek. What? Did he think he was sick?

 

Junkrat turned his head away from him. “M’fine,” he muttered. “Just tired.”

 

"You piss me off,” said Roadhog, like it was some kind of patient explaination and like it needed saying.

 

“Yeah, well same here, mate.” Junkrat wasn’t sure if he meant Roadhog pissed him off or if he pissed himself off. Either, he guessed. Both.

 

Roadhog went back to the bike. Junkrat didn’t sit up to see what he was doing, but he could hear him unloading things and making camp. The next thing he knew, he was being hoisted up by the straps of his rucksack. “Do you fucking _mind_?” He didn’t want to stand.

 

“You’re quiet,” said Roadhog.

 

“What? That a problem now? Shut up but don’t be _too_ quiet? Find a happy medium? Fuck off.”

 

“Quieter than normal,” Roadhog amended. He looked down. Junkrat was favoring his left leg, and the big guy must have noticed that. He went down to one knee and began to remove his right leg. Junkrat started to object, but fuck it. It hurt, and he couldn’t seem to muster up the energy to be stubborn about it. Instead he leaned forward, bracing himself against his bodyguard’s shoulder. He felt the weight of the prosthetic leave him and a cool rush of air as the very worn liner beneath that was pulled away next. “Better?”

 

Junkrat shrugged.

 

“You eaten dinner?”

 

He shrugged again.

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

Another shrug.

 

“You piss me off, so goddamn much.” Roadhog put an arm around Junkrat and stood, taking him along. He moved him a couple a feet to the right, sitting down next to him on the sleeping bag. Junkrat had no complaints. He stretched out on it and tried to decide if the both of them were better or worse off now that Roadhog had come back for him.

 

“Jamison,” said Roadhog, a word that made Junkrat’s ear twitch involuntarily. It wasn’t often he heard his given name. “Your most recent memory of your family. What is it?”

 

Junkrat considered that question. He considered not answering it at all. Partly, because remembering that far back wasn’t easy and partly because he was still mad at Roadhog. But Roadhog was patient, and when the beginnings of a memory came to Junkrat, he still seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer. “I guess…” Junkrat began, looking up at the night sky. “I guess, I was hurt or scared or something. Both, I guess.” He stopped there. This was stupid.

 

“And?” prompted Roadhog.

 

“And… Shit, I dunno. They held me, told me it was gonna be okay… Which it fucking _wasn’t._ Not that I knew that then.”

 

“What’d it feel like?”

 

“I don’t know,” Junkrat snapped. Even though he did know. (Maybe _because_ he knew.) “I felt safe, I guess. I believed him.” In his periphery, he saw Roadhog shake his head. “What about you?” he asked, stumbling over the question a bit. Asking about Roadies’ family was what had driven him off the first time. It felt fair to ask, though. If he ran off again, fuck ‘im.

 

Roadhog didn’t freak out on him this time. He laid a hand on Junkrat’s shoulder. “I think I remember more of my family than you do yours.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I miss ‘em.” The hand on Junkrat’s shoulder squeezed. His fingers dug in until it was painful. Gradually, he let up. Roadhog’s hand touched Junkrat’s neck instead. It moved up to the side of his face. Junkrat would have preferred painful, but instead it was weird - the way he was looking at him. Roadhog usually just did what he wanted, (Fuck, punch, strangle) and what the wanted to do right now was kiss Junkrat.

 

Junkrat let it happen. He let Roadhog’s lips move around his and waited for him to be finished. This happened sometimes. Sometimes, Roadhog kissed him during sex. It was okay. Just something Roadhog liked to do when the mood struck him. (Like spooning or that big fucking hook of his ending up in bed with them.) Junkrat must have seemed especially unenthusiastic about humoring Roadhog tonight. Roadhog pulled away. He sat up. “Bike needs some repairs when we’ve got the time and the opportunity,” he said, changing the subject almost like he was embarrassed.

 

Seeing Roadhog without the mask was never something Junkrat quite got used to. He wasn’t going to blame his shoddy memory on that one. (Though it might have had something to do with it.) No, Roadhog without the mask was just kinda inherently weird. It reminded Junkrat his best mate was a person, not a force of nature. Easier to be friends with a force of nature, frankly. Easier to spend time with death and destruction, easier to like it a whole bunch and fuck it on the side.

 

It came back to Junkrat now. Some of it, anyway. Roadhog before he was Roadhog. He’d had… a daughter? Was that right? A wife. He’d definitely had a wife. A wife who probably loved kissing and cuddling and… probably not hooks. (Well, _maybe_ hooks. Roadhog was into some kinky shit and, in Junkrat’s experience, people never changed _that_ much.) He missed them, he said. Junkrat tried to imagine that. He thought back on the taste of it he’d gotten today, on life as a rat without its pig. It fucking sucked. Junkrat wouldn’t wish that kind of loneliness on anyone. (Except maybe suits… and filthy omnic lovers… and Ted. Ted owed him money. Ted could suck a dick.)

 

Junkrat sat up. With his left hand, he touched Roadhog’s back. “Oi. C’mere, Big Guy.”

 

Roadhog turned, and Junkrat kissed _him_ this time.

 

“It’s not the same,” grumbled Roadhog. His breath was warm against Junkrat’s neck.

 

“Yeah, well…” Junkrat trailed off, arms around his bodyguard’s neck, spinning a strand of white hair around his fingers. “That’s how it goes, innit?”

 -

Roadhog pushed Jamison down on the sleeping bag. He kissed him again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Now**

 

He was finished. How long had he been finished? The rhythmic _tick, tick, tick_ of the timer roused Junkrat from his daydreaming. He didn’t remember how long he’d set the thing for. No matter. Time to go collect his bodyguard.

 

Junkrat took a detour. He hopped through the busted window of the small building that serperated him from Roadie. The floor shook. Somewhere not so far away people were screaming. Sounded like fun. Junkrat moved toward it. There was a noise to his right. It stirred his curiosity. Junkrat moved toward that instead. Someone spoke to him. He stopped.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Roadhog was a bodyguard, he was an enforcer. Basically the meet cute chapter. Except not cute. So, like, a meat ugly? Just a meet?

 

**Now**

 

“Easy there, Son.” It was the old man who ran this place. He was crouched behind a counter, clearing out a safe. Junkrat saw a bag in it. Cash was in that bag. He could see its rectangular edges pressed against folds in the cloth. In one hand, the old man held the corner of that bag. In the other hand dangled a set of keys. He was gonna make a run for it. Lie low out there somewhere, come back in a day or two and see what was left. These probably weren’t the first bones of a building the old codger had set up shop in. Junkrat didn’t like that. It showed a lack of commitment, didn’t it? Defend what’s yours, shouldn’t ya?

 

Junkrat found himself feeling suddenly magnanimous. “What you wanna do, mate?” He hopped up and crouched down on the counter to get himself a better view of the man cowering down there. “You wanna get out there and join in on the fightin’ or you wanna die here?”

 

The old man raised his hands, palms extended outward. “You looking for money, Son? I can give you some money.”

 

That was the second time he’d used that word, “Son.” Like, he was trying to be friendly. Junkrat didn’t like it. “I asked you a question, didn’t I?” Junkrat raised his gun a little higher, like a reminder of what that questions was.

 

“I don’t want no part of this,” said the old man. His hands were still raised, and he was trying a smile now. It didn’t look good on him. His front teeth were all speckled with rot and the smile itself was insincere. “I’d rather steer clear and let you kids duke it out. My fighting days are behind me”

 

Junkrat didn’t like that either. Wrinkled assholes like him were always acting like they deserved respect by default somehow. Like you were supposed to give ‘em special considerations ‘cause they were old, be polite to ‘em ‘cause they were old, let ‘em pick over rations first because they earned it just by being alive longer. Fuck that. What had they ever done for Junkrat aside from let the world end up like this? It wasn’t even like he’d be afforded the same considerations one day. How old was this guy? Sixty? Ninety? (He wasn’t the best at gauging that sort of thing.) Junkrat didn’t think he had sixty years in him. He hoped he did, but he wasn’t stupid. He could feel the truth under his skin and in his lungs and in his brains when things were tumbling around up there.

 

Fuck this old son of a bitch thinking Junkrat owed him mercy. “Don’t wanna defend what’s yours? What? You too good to go down in a blaze of glory or somethin’? Where’s your gun at, huh? I know you’ve got one.” Everyone had a gun out here. With trembling hands, the old man reached around his back and pulled one from the waist of his pants. “There you go.”

 

“C’mon.” The old man hadn’t given up with that smile. “You’re welcome to what’s in the safe. Just-”

 

“You were real quick to take their side yesterday.” Junkrat inclined his head toward the screams outside. “Are they working with you? You two have some kind of a- whatsit called? Like, a symbiotic relationship or something? Kinda shitty to just turn tail and abandon them, don’t you think?”

 

“I…” The old man trailed off, like he wasn’t sure what Junkrat wanted to hear. The revolver in his hand rattled. He was scared. Pathetic.

 

“Give me that.” Junkrat leaned across the counter and snatched the gun from his hand. He was partial to explosives, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use one of these. It might even come in handy. (Oh, shit. Right. Roadie was waiting on him.) “Toss the cash,” he told the old man, and he did. “Now fuck off,” he amended. Let him do what he wanted. Junkrat headed for the door.

 

Junkrat heard it before he saw it. His hearing might be shit, but you didn’t make it long out here if you weren’t perceptive. Junkrat heard the old man scramble for something. He heard metal scrape against the wood. He felt the telltale breeze of a barrel being leveled, somewhere behind him, right between his shoulder blades. (Sawed off behind the counter. _Stupid._ So stupid.) It was dumb luck he didn’t bite it it right then and there. The first charge detonated. The foundation shook and a big chunk of ceiling caved in. The gun the old man was holding went off. Pain bloomed across Junkrat’s back as he turned, but it didn’t rock him. He wasn’t gushing blood or anything like that. He threw himself across the counter, wresting the shotgun away with ease. He knocked him to the ground with the butt of it.

 

Junkrat wasn’t _mad_ the old man tried to kill him. (Not exactly.) He liked him a little better for it frankly. “Easy there, Son.” The old man was trying to appeal to his better nature again. (He was sorry now that he’d fucked up. They were _all_ sorry after they fucked up. Junkrat knew the feeling well.) It was the second time he’d used that line and the third time he’d used that term of endearment. That was three times too many as far as Junkrat was concerned. He brought a fist down into his face. He brought it down again and then again, until the face looked less like the old man’s and more like someone else’s…

 

It was the pointed face of the Junker he’d know when he was little. The one with the real bad teeth, set in the first mouth that told him he was useless. (”It’s nothing personal, Kid. Just can’t afford to loose no more money on ya.”) It was a similar face behind that, angular and familiar. (Too familiar. Like a reflection kinda blurred around the edges.) It was a mask. An animal mask, and somewhere behind Junkrat, he heard the voice that belonged to it shouting at him.

 

“The fuck are you doing? Get out of there.”

 

* * *

 

 

**??? Ago**

 

 

“Get out,” said Roadhog.

 

It was Roadhog. It had to be. Junkrat had never seen the man before, but he was sure of it. This was him. Who else could it be? The mask seemed like a good indicator. He looked bigger than Junkrat had imagined, and Junkrat had imagined him big.

 

“Get out or I drag you out,” Roadhog repeated. His voice rumbled inside the crawlspace, impossible to miss. Junkrat could see the outline of him, a hulking shadow against the light of the exit. The crawl space had been a shitty spot to retreat to, but they’d surprised him. He wouldn’t have hidden in here had he known there wasn’t another way out.

 

At least the Junkers pursuing him were too afraid to follow. (”Heard he sets traps. I like having all four ‘a me limbs, thanks.”) They were at a stalemate while the Junkers tried to figure out what to do next. Starve him out? That would take to long. He might find a way out by then. Smoke him out? Too risky. No one was willing to go in after him if he lost consciousness. Dig down into the crawlspace? No way. The building it was beneath was a wreck. No way they sifted through all that without the whole thing collapsing.

 

So, they’d called in Roadhog. You heard stories in Junkertown. He was a big brute of a man, wore a mask with a snout They called him Hog, and not because of the bike. He was an enforcer for an offshoot Junker gang that roved these parts. That meant they sent him out when someone needed to be scared or hurt or both. Mostly both. So far, Junkrat was just one of the two. His fingers worked at the wood, trying to pry it away where it was loose. If he could find an opening. Any opening. If he could squeeze out, he could make a run for it and- Cold metal caught him around the torso. Several sharp somethings bit into his skin and, suddenly, he was being pulled.

 

A hook, Junkrat realized. He was wondering at how Roadhog had managed to snag him with it in such a small space when he remembered his own trap. Roadhog pulled hard. “Wait!” Junkrat yelled, twisting and reaching for the steel jaws moments before they snapped shut.

 

Roadhog wrestled Junkrat, shrieking and bleeding, out into the light of day. He planted his knee on his sternum, pinning him down with his considerable weight. It was the first time he told Junkrat to shut up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Now**

 

Frankly, being hooked was old hat at this point. Muscle memory told him not to struggle. The nails in that hook would tear you up something awful if you struggled. Junkrat had learned that the hard way and had some lingering marks to prove it. He was swept backwards. His whole world had honed in on that old man, and now it receded suddenly. It made his brains swim and his stomach nauseous. His anger was gone, and it left a hole that was big and empty.

 

Junkrat’s body collided with Roadhog’s. An arm came around him, crushed him to his chest. “Idiot,” he heard him breathe.

 

The second charge went. Roadhog lurched toward safety, shoving Junkrat along ahead of himself.

 

* * *

 

**??? Ago**

 

Roadhog put a hand on Junkrat’s back and pushed. He tripped over the threshold, peg leg bumping up against the ledge where the elevation changed. He tried to catch himself and regretted it. The arm chomped by his own trap hit the cold cement with a wet slap. Junkrat made a sound that was shrill and pathetic even to his own ears. Some Junkers laughed. Not Roadhog. He snaked an arm around Junkrat’s middle and hoisted him up again. There was a chair strategically placed in the center of the dark room. The bloodstains on and around it had never been cleaned up. They’d just been left to dry and intimidate. (It was working.) A couple lengths of a rope and half a roll of duct tape later, and Junkrat was firmly secured to that chair.

 

A lot of words got said. Junkrat didn’t keep track of them. Variations of, “You’ve got the wrong guy!” and “I don’t know what this is about!” and everyone’s favorite, “Let’s work something out!” (Hard to convincingly haggle for your life when you’d never been nothing but just this side of flat broke.) The words all came pouring out until a strip of that duct tape got slapped over his mouth. Even then, he gave talking his way out of this an honest effort.

 

“Where are you going?” demanded a Junker with a droopy bleached mohawk.

 

Roadhog was headed for the door. Telling Junkrat to shut up hadn’t worked. Tape just made the words unintelligible. A slap to the back of the head hadn’t done the trick either. “Gonna wait outside.”

 

Mohawk didn’t stop him. No one stopped him. A guy that big, who would dare? The Junkers did turn a bit meaner once he was gone. The atmosphere relaxed. They were all equals now, free to show off.

 

Mohawk, bitch with an inflamed septum piercing, asshole with a leather jacket that couldn’t possibly be comfortable in this heat. Nose Ring spit on him. Mohawk kept prodding at the puncture wounds in his arm, seeing how far he could work a finger into one before Nose Ring squealed and shoved him and told him to stop.

 

After a while, they took his leg. “Good scrap in this,” said Leather, and he was right. There was. That leg had taken a lot of work, a lot of trial and error, and one kidnapping. (Only one. It was brief. He’d needed a second pair of hands and someone who knew what the fuck they were doing with prosthetics.) Junkrat felt naked without it. He strained in its direction but, deep down, he knew he wasn’t getting it back. Deep down, he knew the chances of him getting out of here at all were real fucking slim.

 

A couple more people entered. One didn’t stay for long. He was a big man. Not like Roadhog was big. Big like a boss was big. Everyone shrank a little smaller around him. He didn’t introduce himself, just took Junkrat’s head in one of his meaty hands and turned it from left to right then back again. “Jamison Fawkes... Looks like him.” He gave his guys a nod, as if to indicate they’d done good. He gave Junkrat a long look, as if to say he’d fucked up. (That was fair. He had.) "Where is it?” he asked. Boss Man gave him a second to think that over before pulling the edge of the tape off.

 

Junkrat bit him. It didn’t do much. Boss Man was wearing riding gloves. Still, he shook out his hand after smoothing the tape back down. It hurt him. He didn’t look surprised, just annoyed. Junkrat saw the right hook coming. He wagered it hurt a lot more than the bite. Boss Man got down in his face while his brain was still bouncing around in its skull. “I’ll be back tonight. Hope you have a different answer for me by then.” He turned and headed back through the door, leaving behind the three Junkers who worked for him and the broad-shouldered woman he’d entered with. Junkrat hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention to her until now. She stood off to one side with a bag and an impassive expression.

 

With the door closed, the Junkers got started. If it was supposed to be torture, there was no finesse to it. Mohawk laid into him, letting Nose Ring have a turn when his knuckles got sore. She didn’t hit as hard, but she hit in places the fellas where hesitant to hit. (Well, kick really. Mostly she kicked.) The broad shouldered woman stopped them a couple of times. A doctor. That’s what she was, a none too gentle one either. Once she pushed a syringe into his arm. He wasn’t sure what was in it, but made his heart speed up. It made him wake up, made the ache of his insides sharper somehow. She snapped on latex gloves and shined a light in his eyes, made them lay off for a bit while she repaired damage so they could inflict it again. Probably had some of that fancy medical tech you heard rumors about but no one could afford.

 

Eventually, Roadhog came back into the room. Junkrat’s peripheral vision was a little shoddy at that point, but he was hard to miss. Someone asked him if he wanted a turn. Wasn’t this part of his job as an enforcer or something? But Roadhog just grumbled something in the negative, settling in a corner with a book that looked minuscule in his massive hands. Better he didn’t get involved. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who had the light touch required for torture. Granted, neither did these fucking drongos. If they thought this would make him talk, they were dumber than they looked. Junkrat could take a beating. He’d taken a lot of beatings over the years. (Built character. Bad character, but that was still character.)

 

Boss Man came back in eventually. The room was windowless. It was dark out when the door opened, but the passage of time was difficult to gauge aside from the fact that the Junkers working him over complained about being bored or hungry once or twice. Junkrat kinda felt them there. On the bored front, anyway. (You could hurt and still be bored.) Not so much on the hungry front. Between teeth that felt loose in his skull and ribs that seemed to contract unevenly every time he inhaled, he didn’t have much of an appetite.

 

So, Boss Man was a welcome distraction. Not that he stayed long. Roadhog got up when he entered. On his boss’s command he, reluctantly, set aside his book and jerked the tape from Junkrat’s mouth. “I dare you to bite him,” said Boss Man, holding up his own fingers. The index and middle finger were lightly bandaged. (Small consolation there. Very small.) Junkrat was sorely tempted to spite him and bite Roadhog, but _Jesus_ , that fucker was big up close.

 

Roadhog didn’t seem particularly concerned either way. His hand moved from Junkrat’s mouth, up to the top of his head. He gripped a handful of his hair, wrenching his head back when he slumped, forcing him to meet Boss Man face to face. Junkrat might have said something then. Instead, he spat blood. (He aimed for Boss Man, would have settled for his feet, but was dimly aware of it dribbling into his own lap.) His mouth seemed to be impossibly full of the stuff. He’d swallowed so much with his mouth taped, he felt sick.

 

Boss Man only asked one question, “Where is it?”

 

Junkrat spat again, clearing his mouth as best he could. His throat felt raw and his speech was slurred when he found his voice. “No idea what yer talking about, mate.”

 

The Junkers exchanged anxious looks, but he wasn’t stupid. If he told them what they wanted to know, they’d kill him. He’d take his chances playing dumb for a while longer, thanks. Boss Man didn’t look surprised. He whispered something to The Doctor. She seemed to consider whatever it was he’d said to her, then she nodded and began to rummage through her bag.

 

There was a tool box against a wall. Boss Man went to it and, with Leather’s assistance, found a pair of bolt cutters. “Hang on,” said Junkrat over The Doctor speaking quietly to Roadhog. “Why don’t you tell me what it is you’re looking for huh? Let’s talk,” he slurred as Roadhog let go of his hair and took his left hand into his own. There was a rope ‘round his shoulders, and his forearms were taped down to the arms of the chair, but he’d balled his hands into fists when he got a sense of what was about to happen.

 

“Other hand,” Boss Man said to Roadhog. “That’s where he bit me. Besides, he’s right handed,” he added when Roadhog gave him a look.

 

“No, no, no I’m not! That’s a… that’s a vicious rumor. Left hand is my favorite hand, so-” Junkrat tried to keep Roadhog from unfolding the fingers of his right hand, but that was a fight he lost quick. “Wait, wait, wait.”

 

Boss Man opened the bolt cutters and sandwiched Junkrat’s middle finger between the distressingly blunt edges of them. “You have something you want to tell me?”

 

“Yes,” gasped Junkrat.

 

“And?”

 

“Can it be a different finger? I’m attached to that finger. That is, I’m technically, currently, attached to all my fingers, but that one especially is-”

 

It wasn’t so much a _snip_ as it was a hard crescendoing sound, like a walnut cracking. Junkrat threw all his remaining strength into pulling his hand away. Moving his fingers probably would have done more harm than good at that point, but it didn’t matter. Instinct told him to _move._ He couldn’t. Roadhog had a grip like a vice. He kept pulling anyway, looking anywhere but at his hand. He didn’t even realize the first finger was off before he felt the cold steel of the bolt cutter around his index finger.

 

“Wait-” he began again, but it turned into a scream. He slumped forward as far as all that shit keeping him tied to the chair would allow. He saw Boss Man’s dusty boots taking a step back. He saw one of his fingers on the floor and then another half beneath his chair. From here, he couldn’t even tell which was which. That seemed weird, didn’t it? Like, you should instinctively know what went where when it had been part of you since always. Junkrat felt drunk. His thoughts felt too complicated and far away. There was pain, yeah, but that was hard to focus on, too. The only thing he could really grasp, the thought that kept circling like a predator was a bleak one. He was going to die here.

 

The Doctor moved in. Junkrat felt her gloves. He felt a syringe push in and, moments after that, everything was sharp again. He tried to pull his mind from the pain and focus on something else. He felt the hard callousness of Roadhog’s hand against his own. He felt the grit of sand trapped in the places where their skin touched. He smelled like gasoline and sweat.

 

“Where do I put him?” asked Roadhog.

 

Boss Man considered that for a moment. “We can clear out the cage next to the shitter,” Leather suggested, looking eager to suggest things. “Devin’s in there, but we can let him out. I figure two days for getting high on guard duty is enough, right?”

 

“No.” Boss Man shut that down immediately.

 

“So I put him in there _with_ Devin?”

 

“No,” Boss Man repeated. His posture was straight and tense, his eyes scanned the room and settled on Roadhog. “He stays with you.”

 

The grunt Roadhog gave in response to that communicated a lot. Mostly dissatisfaction.

“He stays with you,” Boss Man said again, more firmly this time, more sure of his decision. “You bring him back here tomorrow at dawn. No one sees him between now and then. No one talks to him. No one gets near him. Understood?”

 

Roadhog didn’t say anything, but his silence must have been agreeable. Boss Man left. The Doctor did some halfhearted doctoring, (Water. Something in an aerosol can. Some haphazard bandages. Done.) then she left too, followed by Leather. Mohawk stayed. He’d picked up one of Junkrat’s fingers from the ground and was teasing Nose Ring by repeatedly trying to poke her with it. She shrieked and giggled and kicked at him a hell of a lot gentler than she’d kicked Junkrat.

 

Meanwhile, Roadhog was undoing ropes and ripping off tape none too gently. Compared to everything else, it didn’t much bother Junkrat. He didn’t fight. He felt… high. (Not good high. Bad high. Too high. Like when a neighbor in Junkertown bartered for a simple repair job with a hyped-up baggie of white pills that briefly made him feel like he was floating and, for the next entire fuckign day, made his head feel like it was about to split open.) Roadhog picked him up like he was nothing. Without his leg and short two fingers, he was certainly less than he had been when he’d first been sat down there.

 

Not nothing, though. He was important now. He was valuable.

 

Junkrat missed being nothing.

 


End file.
